


Synthetic

by ddagent



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Episode Tag, F/M, Robot Feels, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: Melinda discovers her true nature. A tag to 4.10.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Goes without saying, but this story carries spoilers for the most recent episode of Agents of SHIELD. Please also note that this story carries with it some rather explicit description of injuries, wounds, and an instance of self-harm. This is a dark story, but I hope that it is one you'll find compelling. I, personally, found it incredible to write. Happy reading.

There were twenty-seven bones in the human hand. Over the years, Melinda May had broken every single one of them. _Ulna, radius, humerus:_ she had broken them too. She had dislocated her shoulder three times, only once on purpose. Across her body – _scapula, ribs, fibula, tibula_ – there were more memories, more war wounds. Scars from knives, bullets. There were a series of burns collected from engulfed rooms and buildings. There were two holes in her ears for earrings she never wore. There was a scar on her left knee; a gift given to five year old Melinda May who fell too hard on the ice. There was even a faded tattoo; black scrawl across her rib cage. Everything was there. Everything was in the right place.

But it wasn’t right. _She_ wasn’t right.

In the solitude of her room on the Playground, Melinda inspected the wound to her shoulder. It was brutal, _vicious;_ a chunk of her body torn out by a cutting saw. She should be bleeding out at a Ranger’s station right now. But she wasn’t, and a part of her knew – _feared_ \- why _._ Before she probed further, Melinda reached for the bottle of whiskey she kept near her nightstand. A sip, a gulp. She closed her eyes, counted to three, and began her investigation. There was skin, warm and coated in grit and blood. But _underneath…_ Melinda had disabled enough bombs, fixed enough cars, to understand the mechanics. Metal plates. Sheathed wires.

“Oh God. _Oh god._ ”

Melinda ran to the washbasin in the corner, spitting out the whisky and bile forcing itself out of her. She gripped the edge of the sink, desperate for an anchor as her head swam. She was able to feel the pressure of the porcelain against her fingertips. The pain in her shoulder was unbearable; the burn of the whiskey stayed at the back of her throat. She could feel _everything_. Tentatively, she probed the wound again. Melinda sucked in a breath.

“ _No._ ”

She dropped her hand; let it linger by her side. In the tarnished mirror above the sink, Melinda stared at herself. Dark eyes stared back. She ran worn fingers across her jaw, along the length of her nose. They strayed to the wound beside her eye, the last reminder of Aida other than her severed head. Melinda ran a solitary finger down the length of the cut. It was red, raw, as if it had been made only hours before. _It hadn’t healed_. Would the wound on her back heal? Would the skin knit together like flesh, or would it lie gaping like a slip cover? A skin suit.

Melinda threw up the rest of the whiskey.

Stumbling to her bed, Melinda pressed herself into the furthest corner of the wall. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she felt the burn of her open wound against the plaster. She pulled in a breath – _in for four, hold, out for four_ – but it didn’t help. She tried to focus on something else: a point in the corner of her room; the inch of whiskey still left in the bottle. But she was unable to focus on anything other the revelation, the realisation. She wasn’t _real._ She was copper and steel, not blood and bone. Like Aida, _exactly like Aida._

_I need to tell someone._

In her mind’s eye, Melinda got to her feet and ran towards the door. She flung it open, immediately heading for Phil’s room down the hall. He’d know what to do; he’d be able to figure it out. But in reality, her legs didn’t move. Melinda willed them, practically _screamed_ at them, but her body refused to work. She was suddenly struck by a memory of Phil at the Academy, of a worn paperback he’d lent her. Isaac Asimov. _The Three Laws of Robotics._ She couldn’t recall them off hand; maybe self-preservation was one of them. Maybe her programming – _her programming_ – kept her fixed in place.

“I have control,” she hissed to herself, still willing her legs to work. “I have control.”

When her legs still refused to move, she lashed out. Melinda plunged the pocket knife she kept underneath her pillowcase right between her radius and ulna.

Blood – _synthetic, did it still taste like copper_ – seeped out of the open wound, cascading over her arm and onto the sheets below. Like the pain in her shoulder, Melinda could feel the agonising ache of the knife in her arm. Radcliffe had designed Aida with the ability to feel pain. Surely that was a design flaw. She winced again as she dragged the knife out of her skin. For a moment, _just a moment_ , Melinda thought she saw muscle and bone; arteries and veins. But there were metal plates; sheathed wires. Melinda prodded the knife against one of those wires, feeling a rush of fear as her fingertips jerked in response.  

 _“Melinda?_ ”

She hadn’t heard the knock at the door. Her eyes shot up; her ears straining to identify the voice. “Phil?”

_“Yeah, it’s me. You ready to go?”_

She blinked, unable to process what was happening. “Go? Go where?”

Phil chuckled nervously from behind the door. “ _Breakfast? We talked about it, remember? You, me, pancakes…we’re going to that diner in D.C.”_

She did remember. After their last mission, another late night, they had agreed to grab breakfast together sometime. Phil had talked up this little diner; kept raving about their pancakes. Another meal they would share together. They were already eating dinner together most nights; training together most mornings. Phil had even started joining her for Tai Chi. Things were finally heading somewhere. They were finally, after all these years, getting closer. _Just their luck._

Realising Phil wouldn’t go away on his own, Melinda tentatively approached the door. She wrapped her arm in a towel, an unnecessary act as the blood had already stopped. She held her arm out of sight as she propped open the door just wide enough to see through. “Hey.”

“Hey! So, you ready to go?”

She shook her head, unable to quite meet Phil’s eyes. “I’m not well. Maybe another time.”

Phil’s face immediately fell, shifting quickly to one of concern. He stepped closer to the door. “Are you okay? Do you want me to bring you some ginger tea, maybe some dry toast?”

“I’m fine.” Melinda began to close the door. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay.” His smile returned, Phil hovering as if he didn’t want to leave. “Take care of yourself. We’ll do breakfast another time, when you’re feeling better.”

“You could go.”

He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Melinda felt her stomach twist; a ridiculous reaction considering she was in her fifties and had never been the type of girl to get swept up in a boy. But Phil was… _Phil._ And she was _synthetic_. The eyes Phil was staring into weren’t real. The body she caught him admiring was built from wires and circuit boards. The love she felt for him was as real as everything else about her. She couldn’t tell him what she was; she felt the words stick in the back of her throat. Until she knew more, until she knew _why,_ she should keep him at arm’s length.

“Hey, Phil?”

Phil turned at the sound of her voice, walking the few paces back to her door. “Yeah?”

She swallowed, her lips unable to form _I don’t think this is a good idea. I don’t think this should go any further. I don’t want to hurt you please don’t let me hurt you._ “I’m really looking forward to that breakfast.”

Phil’s smile could power the base for an entire month. “Me too. Get some rest; we’ll talk later.”

She watched him leave through a crack in the door. As soon as he was gone, Melinda collapsed to the ground. She couldn’t protect him. She couldn’t keep him safe. What was the _point_ of her if she couldn’t keep the person she loved safe?  


End file.
